White Collar - The Reunion
by JustforMary
Summary: Neal returns from Paris five years later to surprise the Burkes with a special gift.


No one cares anymore that Neal was in prison. It's nearly 2020 - not even the FBI cares about what Neal does with his free time. Gone were the days of heists, of priceless heirlooms and getting confused on the streets of New York City for a Matt Bomer look-alike.

Neal hasn't been the center of attention in quite some time. Few people followed his exploits since he apparently (according to Wikipedia) faked his death and fled to Paris.

Sitting on the steps of the home formerly owned by Peter and Elizabeth Burke, Neal realized that the world's moved on without him. Even the Burkes, with whom he's shared good times and bad, wine and intimacy, stolen art and store-bought bedroom aids, have moved on.

Moments ago, Neal was optimistic. A quart of eggnog in one hand and some sort of pointlessly expensive thingamajig he stole from a self-absorbed billionaire in the other, Neal was knocking on the front door of the house he thought was still occupied by the Burkes - knocking with his elbow, because his hands were full of the two things that were established already in his hands.

A woman had opened the door, just a crack. Peering at Neal through the sliver, she told him that she's not interested.

Not interested - those two words have been haunting Neal since December 14, 2014. A pall washed over him. The world's moved on. Even the Burkes have moved on. And now, five years to the day since last he's seen them, he knew a reunion was an idea best left unrealized.

"I'm looking for Peter Burke," Neal said quietly to the crack in the door. "He used to live here."

"Nobody named Peter lives here. Or ever did. I've lived in this house for 60 years, ain't nobody named Peter ever lived here. There was a Phillip, that was my husband, he's dead now, got hit by a truck back in '04, then my kids but they're both girls and neither were named Peter - oh, and for awhile we had a nice old Mexican that lived in the garden shed who he said was traveling but he lived in there for seven years and his name was Wayne, at least I think it was Wayne - actually, that might have been the mailman's name," the woman said. "Are you the new mailman? I didn't order any eggnog."

Neal sat down on the stoop and set the eggnog and the thingamajig beside him on the stair. Maybe no one ever did care. Maybe there was no Peter, no Elizabeth, no Mozzie or Kate or Special Agents Diana Berrigan or Clinton Jones, or even Special Agent Lauren Cruz who most people probably forget even existed. Maybe Neal never went to prison, maybe he wasn't a world-class thief and forger with a heart of gold. Maybe he was just Neal Caffery, a man who looked like Matt Bomer, with no special skills or interesting story. Just a guy on a porch that doesn't belong to him, listening to the breathing of an old woman staring at him through a crack in a door.

"Neal?"

Neal looked up - walking hand in hand along the sidewalk with a small child bundled from head to toe in a snowsuit was Elizabeth. She was older, and motherhood appeared to have beaten down her edges, but she was unmistakable. The boy with whom she was walking appeared to be of kindergarten age, and Neal surmised that it must have been her son, unless in the six intervening years since last he saw the Burkes, Elizabeth had taken up kidnapping.

Neal stood, and heard a whisper from the crack in the door - "you know, has anyone ever told you you look like Matt Bomer?" the old woman croaked behind him. Scooping up his belongings, Neal crossed the distance in a few giddy strides, reaching Elizabeth and smiling broadly. He motioned for a hug, and overcome with glee and forgetting the average height of kindergarteners and the large glass bottle of eggnog in his hand, he drove the bottle squarely into the bridge of the child's nose.

The child squealed, and almost instantly, two torrents of hot, steaming blood shot from either nostril. The boy covered his face in his hands, and the blood pushed itself over and between his tiny fingers, coalescing and dripping from his fingertips into the snowy mush on the sidewalk. Elizabeth corralled the screaming child in her arms, examining his face behind the blood, tears and pain. "It's broken - you broke my child's nose, Neal."

"I - I - uh, it's so good to see you," Neal stammered, reaching for another hug. This time, the thingamajig, probably more accurately described as an urn containing the ashes of the long-dead patriarch of an oil barony, collided with the crown of the child's head, shattering instantly and creating a cloud of soot that billowed out and around the trio. The boy, most covered by the dead billionaire, was overcome by a fit of sneezing that sent splatters of blood arcing in every direction, dotting Neal's fancy Parisian coat with red.

"Neal! Why are you doing this!" Elizabeth shrieked. She scooped the boy in her arms like a sack of blood-and-ash covered potatoes and jogged up the driveway. She clambered up the three steps onto the stoop upon which Neal had only moments before been seated and furiously kicked at the door.

The old woman returned, again opening the door just a sliver. "Mrs. Hughes! Call the police! And an ambulance!" Elizabeth demanded.

Neal couldn't see the old woman. He was standing on the sidewalk, covered in a dead man's ashes and a small child's blood. He could see, though, other neighborhood eyes opening all around him. Shades being parted by prying fingers, front doors opening, cars slowing down as they passed by on the sycamore-lined residential street. It was happening. People were starting to notice him again. People were starting to care about Neal, once again. He had to keep it going.

It wasn't long before the faint wail of sirens could be heard. In this neighborhood, upper middle class, populated by old people and small children, the police come when called, and as the sirens grew closer, Neal thumbed off the cap of the bottle of eggnog. At least the boy's face didn't shatter this, thought Neal as he poured its contents down his gullet.

He turned toward the house of Mrs. Hughes. She must have called the police as per Elizabeth's request, or another neighbor did, but her neighborly obligations went no further as Elizabeth and her son were still on the stoop. Elizabeth was coaching the child to look skyward and pinch the bridge of his nose to stem the bleeding, while simultaneously struggling to operate her phone with blood-covered fingers.

A police cruiser arrived, parking in the street. Two officers exited the vehicle as Neal watched. One officer, a tall, thin young man who exited from the driver's side of the car, walked briskly past Neal to the porch. Neal saw the officer exchange words with Elizabeth, who gestured wildly in Neal's direction. The other officer, an older woman with blond hair in a tight braid slithering out from under her wide-brimmed hat, approached Neal cautiously, one hand on her service weapon.

"Sir, do you have any weapons or drug paraphernalia on your person?" the female officer asked him. Neal could hear through the woman's walkie-talkie that her partner on the porch had called for back-up, that there was an ongoing violent attack occurring, to send another car. "Turn around and lie down on the ground."

Neal looked the woman in the eye. "I have no weapons, other than my charm, wit and skill," he said. The officer was not amused. "I also have this TASER," he added, deftly removing the device from the inside pocket of his coat and unloading its charge into the officer's neck. She stiffened, each muscle in her body becoming coiled stone as she collapsed onto the sidewalk. Neal flourished his coat, a haze of dead man's ashes catching the glow of a low winter sun. That was for the people watching, he thought to himself. The quart of eggnog sloshing around in his stomach was not settling well, and he let escape a wet burp that gained a bit too much velocity as it exited. That's not a good sign, he thought. But there's no time to worry about that - he was once again the star of the show, and he wasn't going to let this opportunity go by the wayside.

As Neal approached the porch, the male officer turned to see Neal striding toward him, his blood-smeared face contorted and pallid in a way only too much dairy at once could induce. "Sir! Stop right there!" the man shouted, positioning himself between Neal and the wailing Elizabeth. An ambulance arrived, sliding to a stop behind the vacant police cruiser. The technicians inside exited their vehicle, laid eyes on the scene unfolding on the lawn and returned to the ambulance.

If only Peter were here to see this, Neal thought as he heeded the officer's command to stop his approach. The officer drew his gun and ordered Neal to drop his Taser. Neal did so.

"Officer, there seems to be some sort of horrible miscommunication happening here," said Neal calmly. "I - _burp -_ just want to talk." Neal took another step forward, his hands raised to this shoulders, palms out. "Elizabeth and I have a lot of - _blurch- _catching up to do."

"Stay back or I will shoot you where you stand, sir."

Neal took another step forward. "You can't shoot me, I'm an unarmed man - neighbors are watching," he said. Another step. "And look at me, look how _handsome _I am. No one would forgive you."

The officer glanced around the neighborhood, suddenly noticing the dozens of eyes following the situation hidden behind curtains and windows. He kept his pistol trained on Neal's chest, but his grip was wavering.

Neal took another step. He was within arm's reach now, and in only another step he'd be to the porch. To Elizabeth. Neal could see Mrs. Hughes, widow of Phillip Hughes and landlord for nearly a decade to a Mexican man who might have been named Wayne, peeking through a crack in the door. "Officer," Neal said. "I just want to ta-"

Neal couldn't finish his words. His mouth was full of what had a second previously been the contents of his stomach. The vomit exploded upward and outward, a radiant, mostly undigested tincture of milk, cream, sugar, eggs and rum that was expelled with such force and magnificence the male officer, caught in its path, dropped his pistol and clawed at his eyes.

It had been nearly a decade since the last time Neal threw up - Peter's office, 2010, after Peter had sworn the leftover fried rice in the minifridge was "still good" - and that memory was triggered now. Neal felt better in his body's tummy, but he also felt sad in his brain's tummy.

The officer struggled to part the veil of Neal's vomit that had obscured his vision, and Neal kneeled to retrieve the dropped firearm. He didn't like guns and had always aimed to solve problems of violence with more graceful solutions, vomit notwithstanding, but desperate times called for a resounding pistol-whip to the jaw of a police officer on the porch of an old woman's house in the middle of a rich suburb, and that's what he did.

"Elizabeth," Neal said. "What have you been up to? It's been awhile."

Elizabeth shielded her child from Neal's view. Neal assumed the boy was past the surprise and shock of multiple blows about the head and face and is now he and Elizabeth would be more open to the prospect of a do-over, but the terror in Elizabeth's eyes told Neal that he was going to have to apply more of that trademark "loveable scamp" charm he was once known for.

Once known, Neal thought. No longer. Now, no one knows me. Not even Elizabeth, who a decade ago would have shared that eggnog without a second thought - just she, Peter and he, sitting around the Burkes' dining room table, reminiscing about the one of the many criminals in the inexplicably crowded subset of high-end thievery they'd collared that week. Back then, there were no beat cops to puke on, no old ladies living in a house that Neal could have sworn was the Burkes' but now realized was two doors down because he hadn't been there in five years and couldn't be bothered to look up the correct address, and most importantly, no _children. _

"Neal, why are you doing this?!" Elizabeth moaned, her eyes not on his but on the object in his hands.

Neal realized he was still holding the officer's service weapon. "Where's Peter?" Neal asked.

"Peter? He's gone."

"Gone? Like to the store?"  
"Gone like we split up four years ago! We tried to tell you but you were in Paris!"

"They have phones in Paris, Elizabeth."

"How do you call a criminal who lives in a series of storage units?"

Neal was hurt. He only lived in a few storage units, and none in Paris. He had an apartment that overlooked the Eiffel Tower, above a crepe shop. It was downright idyllic, and Neal had hoped this reunion would have ended with the surprise he had in his back pocket.

"Well I'm here now and I want to see Peter."

Elizabeth shifted her boy's weight in her arms, still positioning herself between he and Neal. I'm not a monster, thought Neal. I wouldn't kill a child, even one that ruins all my plans. _Would I?_

"I already called him, he'll be here soon. Please, kill him, not us."

Neal laughed. It wasn't funny, but it produced in him a feeling so genuine he didn't know how else to react - surprise. "I'm not going to kill anybody, I came here to ask you guys to come visit me in Paris!" Neal said. He reached into his back pocket and Elizabeth flinched before she spied the object he produced. It was a paper folder. Two plane tickets to Paris. "Two first class tickets. Please come. I'm very lonely."

Elizabeth relaxed her grip on her son, who rolled off her lap still trying to contain his nosebleed. He looked pale, Neal thought. Probably needs more sun - kids these days and their video games.

"I'm not going to Paris with you, Neal. We haven't talked in five years. And you only have two tickets - you knew we had a kid, you met him before, remember?"

Neal didn't remember. Neal never watched the last few seasons so he wasn't sure if when Wikipedia said Peter cared for his child and Neal left the country, it meant Neal and this child had ever actually crossed paths. In fact, Neal assumed that nothing had occurred in the intervening five years since last people cared to keep up with his adventures. But times have changed, he thought. And for the worse. Neal's life wasn't a comic book, it wasn't an adaptation, it wasn't a rehash of an established franchise. It was just Neal, his expensive suits, winning smile and resemblance to Matt Bomer. He thought characters were welcome, but now, with a cop's pistol in his hand, the Burke boy's blood on his skin, his own vomit caked on his chin and a dead billionaire's ashes in his hair, he knew the world had truly moved on from him.

He turned the pistol over in his hands. Maybe Elizabeth was right, that an entire life could happen in five years. Children grow up, relationships die. Stomachs aren't as equipped to handle an influx of alcohol-tainted dairy. Maybe Neal should have stayed in Paris. Maybe he should have stayed a memory, a self-contained story with a beginning, middle and end. There was no need for a reunion. There was no need for Neal.

Before he knew what he was doing, the barrel of the gun was pressed against his temple. He looked at Elizabeth and her son. His eyes flicked from them to Mrs. Hughes, still peering from the darkness of her home out the crack in the door. He looked down at the male officer, who had regained consciousness and was now groggily trying to find his teeth Neal had jarred loose with his pistol-whip.

"Neal, wait."

It was a new voice, but one Neal immediately recognized. He turned, gun still held to his head, to see Peter, halfway up the driveway. It was Peter, but it wasn't the Peter that Neal remembered. This Peter had half the hair he had five years ago. This Peter had an extra, in Neal's estimation, 40 or so pounds distributed unevenly around his torso and chest, thighs and rear. This Peter wasn't wearing a sharp suit but a grey I Heart NY sweatshirt and jogging pants that have never seen a single jog to earn the moniker. This Peter had given up.

"Neal, what are you doing here?" Peter said. Neal didn't recognize in appearance the Peter that stood before him, but his supplicating, grating tone was unmistakable. "Please don't kill yourself on Mrs. Hughes's lawn."

Neal lowered the pistol and hesitated before speaking. "Peter - what happened to you?"

"What happened to me? What happened to you?"

"It's just, look at you. You're fat now."

Peter looked down at his belly, not being done any favors by the shapeless grey sweatshirt. "Things change, Neal. My girlfriend doesn't know how to cook so I eat a lot of pizza."

"Girlfriend? What about Elizabeth?"

Elizabeth scoffed behind Neal from the porch.

"Elizabeth and I - we didn't - look, Neal, it's complicated okay? Did you come here to make me feel bad?"

A voice - feminine, young and full of emptiness - called out from a car parked in the street. "Petey, can we go? I'm gonna be late."

Peter called back toward the road. "Honey, please, one goddamn minute, okay! This is about my kid, I told you to stay out of it when it's about my kid!" Peter returned his attention to Neal. "That's my girlfriend, she's taking a class."

Elizabeth let escape a humorless chuckle. "Girlfriend, you said. Things getting serious between you and whats-her-name?"

"Elizabeth please, you know her name is Miranda and she's only got two more classes before she gets her esthetician license."

Neal looked down once again at the pistol in his hands as Elizabeth retorted. "Oh, well la-di-da. She gonna pay the bills with that while you keep trying to make it big with that super popular band of yours?"

"We toured New Jersey!"

"You played two bars!"

A defeated silence descended as Neal wondered how many bullets were in a cop's gun. If this were a fight, he thought, there were no winners here. Only losers. Neal thought of his apartment in Paris, its view, and the sweet scents that wafted up into his always open windows from the crepe shop below. He thought of the adventures that he and Peter once had, foiling so many crooked CEOs, cat burglars, mob bosses and whoever else tried to drive a wedge into the weird dynamic that was built up between Neal and the Burkes over six years together. They were his family, or as Neal never wanted to admit, his daddy and mommy, and they took care of little baby Neal. But now, they can't even take care of themselves, let alone the bloody, barely conscious six-year-old softly moaning on the old woman's porch. In the five years since he's been away, Neal didn't exist, and once the adventures were over, the Burkes didn't either. Now they were just people, forced to live real lives that real people live, and once the adventures were over, Neal's world ended. As he walked way, leaving the Burkes to their squabbles, he winked at Miranda sitting in the passenger seat of Peter's 2001 Geo Prizm, and she blushed and arched an eyebrow suggestively. At least I still look like Matt Bomer, he thought, and smiled.


End file.
